


Roots

by SnufflesThePig



Category: Robin: Son of Batman (Comics), Young Justice - All Media Types
Genre: Alfred Pennyworth is the Best, Angst, BAMF Alfred Pennyworth, BAMF Damian Wayne, Bad Parent Talia al Ghul, Culture, Culture Shock, Damian Wayne Feels, Damian Wayne Speaks Arabic, Damian Wayne is Robin, Damian Wayne-centric, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Secret Identity, Sharing, Show and tell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-28 14:48:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30141201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnufflesThePig/pseuds/SnufflesThePig
Summary: Damian Wayne has changed. Drastically. He is a separate being from the boy he was at ten. Perhaps a better word would be weapon. He is a person now. And to get that far, he's had to change himself from the inside out in such a drastic way that he does not consider that ten year old him at all.(Damian is the Robin in the Young Justice team, and he's keeping his secrets for more than just Batman's sake.)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 71





	1. You’ve changed.

**Author's Note:**

> This is cross posted on wattpad, but now I know how ao3 works I’m just gonna move it here.

Damian has changed. Drastically. He is a separate being from the boy he was at ten. Perhaps a better word would be weapon. He is a person now. And to get that far, he's had to change himself from the inside out in such a drastic way that he does not consider that ten year old him at all. That... child, hurts to think about. Damian makes a point not to. He cannot afford to forget, the information he gained could be useful, but he tries. His brain seems to agree, not wanting to recognize the past at all, wanting to discard it and be lighter. The best he can do is bury it.

But he is the product of his upbringing, and one cannot bury oneself, only redefine oneself. So that's what he does. And here he is, a person, sitting on a couch on the Mountain's living room, scrolling through his ebook, mind completely engrossed in a fictional tale that has no bearing on the real world.

"So we've established that," Artemis is saying. Damian missed the first part of her apparent epiphany. "But if none of us met before the team, that rules out a whole lot."

"But we did meet," Wally answers nonchalantly from his abhorrent position on the couch. He gives new meaning to the term 'spread eagle'. Damian is glad Wally didn't end up an bird themed hero. That's his game.

"What?!"

"I mean," Wally continues, shoving popcorn into his face. "I knew Rob way before the team. Like years. Flash and Bats introduced us."

Artemis' taken aback squawking brings M'gann floating through the kitchen door, serenely curious.

"What is going on?"

Artemis whirls on her. "Robin and Wally are apparently like best buds. Thing one and thing two. Tweedle Dum and tweedle-dumber."

M'gann's got the confused look on her face again, and before she can ask Damian interjects. "We knew each other before the team."

"Well, yes," she says calmly.

"What do you mean, yes?!"

M'gann turns to face Artemis. "I thought you knew. Doesn't everybody?"

This is not the answer Artemis was looking for, judging by the barely noticeable colour her face turns.

"I met him when we were, like, eleven or something. He was soooooo different."

"So do you know who he is then?", she wheedles, pulling her knees up under her and leaning forward.

"Tt."

"No, and if I did, I wouldn't tell you. Nosy."

M'gann leans her elbows over the couch. "What was he like, Wally?"

"Mean. Really mean. Super formal." Wally trails off. Damian looks up to see him frown.

"He's still mean," Kon offers helpfully from his place in front of the static TV.

Wally snorts. "Nah. Nah nah nah, you don't even know. He was MEAN."

"Robin can be terse, but he is certainly never cruel. Not really. He means well," M'gann defends.

Is that what she thinks?, Damian wonders.

"Yeah, now. But he wasn't... like, he didn't..." Wally curls out of his starfish position to sit forward on the edge of the couch, frown firmly in place. That in and of itself is notable. He looks over at Damian. "Damn, dude. You really have changed."

Kaldur pads quietly in behind them, toweling his head from a shower. He listens thoughtfully before he adds anything.

"People change often. But surely, it has only been a few years. And Robin is, ah, quite stubborn."

Damian smirks, successfully distracted from his book. That, he blames on his father.

"But I'm pretty sure you guys wouldn't recognize him. Even his accent's different."

They are skirting dangerous territory now. Damian doesn't hate his accent, but it's a symptom of his circumstances, and it's easier to just shift into a generic American one than worry. It's different still to the Gothamite one he puts on as a civilian. But he does not need to be worried yet.

"Maybe he was faking it."

"Why would he do that?"

"Accents can adapt when one moves."

"Where was his accent from? No, wait, stupid question, he's from Gotham."

"It wasn't a Gotham accent..." Wally postulates, before snapping his head a little to Damian realizing he's not cleared to be saying this. Damian watches fear, worry, regret and apology flash through his features.

"Who says I am from Gotham?", he says calmly.

That gets even Kon's attention. Only mildly, but still.

"You're Robin," Artemis snaps. Her eyes narrow as he meets them. "You have to be."

"I don't have to be American any more than you do. I would have thought you'd be accepting of foreigners, given your Vietnamese heritage." And the fact that their team is made up of ocean dwellers, aliens, and clones, but he digresses. He's making a point.

It lands. Damian watches her flounder from the corner of his eye, reopening his phone.

"Wh- that's not- how do you even know-? But that's not what I meant. And you know it!"

Wally snickers.

"Don't try to distract me! You're the one who's got explaining to do. What's with the accent?" she juts a finger accusatorily at him, which Damian scowls at, because he might have changed but it doesn't mean he'll accept blatant disrespect.

"I don't have to explain anything."

Kaldur'ahm puts a gentle hand on Damian's shoulder. When he speaks, it is with no small amount of concern. "No. But Robin, you are aware that you are safe here. There is no need to mask your accent if you are indeed doing so."

Damian knew that. It just seemed...

...Huh.

Why had he done that?

No. He had done it back then because he was still not at the point where honesty came naturally. The better question is, why is he still doing it?

"...Thank you, Kaldur'ahm," he rumbles quietly.

Wally's eyes widen and he uncrosses his arms. "Wait, we're you actually faking it?"

"Which one?", Damian responds cheekily. He will stay with American for now. Just for now.


	2. Annunciation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What’s in an accent? Robin’s heard Kaldur’ahm, and he promised to consider dropping some of his natural walls. It’s easier said than done, though.

Damian is prepared to go to their next workout session as always the next day. But to get to the Zeta Tube, he has to go through the Bat Cave. In doing so he walks by his regular training clothes, the ones he wears here. He considers them for a minute longer, just standing and looking at them. At the hoodie he's half pulled on over leggings.   
Quietly, he changes. He has to race upstairs to grab a tight tank top- he does not want to see M'gann's face if the team ever saw his scars, but he does not usually wear a shirt with these pants. 

They have started without him. He walks through the empty halls, blissfully quiet for once, and to the training room. He feels irrationally more comfortable in these pants. His suit is plenty comfortable, so there is no reason for it.  
Kaldur'ahm is matching Kon as he enters. He watches from the doorway, leaning against it, arms crossed. No need to announce himself and distract them.   
The others are watching from the sidelines. Or, they should be. Damian would be surprised if they were all doing what they should be at any given time.   
Kaldur'ahm slips between Superboy's legs too quickly for him to notice. Tt. Superboy's abilities are only as much of an advantage as he makes them, and he hasn't got the hang of it yet. He needs to react more quickly and familiarize himself with more of them than simply strength. Unfortunately, strength is straightforward enough for him to grasp, and it's certainly powerful- but application is more important than power, and he hasn't got the hang of that either. He's improved from just punching stuff, but he needs to improve more. Damian forces himself to practice his empathy. Kon is sixteen months old, he reminds himself. He is not stupid. He is learning.   
Kaldur'ahm taps out when he finds he can do absolutely nothing about Kon simply sitting on him. Damian moves forward. When he speaks, he lets his 'accent' drop- leaving him his natural Arabic one.   
"Well done, Superboy," he proclaims. "You are improving. That was not possible for you a few months ago. Your biggest weakness is still your reaction time. Aqualad, good on you for using that against him. Your strategy is good, but try another next time. It will make you think harder and help your planning for unknowns, and possibly help you practice identifying weaknesses."   
Their heads snap up in surprise at the strange accent. A panting Kaldur'ahm gives him a smile and nod while Kon considers this.   
"Uh, hello? Did anyone see him come in? When did he even get here?", Artemis asks.   
The fighters make their way over to the audience with him. M'gann's eyes light up.   
"Oh, Robin! Those are lovely pants. You do not usually wear loose things. It is like a pretty dress!" M'gann realizes a second late she may have misspoke. Do human men take offense to that? But Robin just sniffs.  
"This is what I wear when I train in the cave," he responds. "Although it is not traditionally worn with a shirt."   
Artemis' eyes are as narrow as Wally's are wide. "Holy shit, that's an intense accent. You were really hiding that?"   
"Language," Kaldur'ahm chides. Damian shrugs.   
"Dude, I can't believe you've been faking it this whole time. Like, what? It's not even a bad accent! But I totally thought you lost it!"   
"I do not typically use it."   
"What? Why? What's wrong with it?" M'gann asks worriedly.  
"It attracts attention. And it changes my speech."   
"Yeah, you do sound kind of robotic," Kon says offhandedly. Kaldur'ahm slaps his chest lightly.   
"This from the clone," he retorts with a smirk.   
"Oh, man, I'm never gonna meet anyone who speaks casually, am I?" Wally whines. "I just don't get it. Why would you say 'do not' when you could say 'don't'?"  
"It is clearer. And it just... makes sense when I speak this way. But maybe it will change." Damian shrugs again. He technically doesn't have to avoid abbreviations, he's fluent in English, but whenever he uses this accent he never seems to use them. He has not taught himself to. Perhaps that is an act too.   
Kaldur'ahm gives him a proud nod. "I am glad you speak freely with us, Robin. We are a team.   
M'gann gasps and grasps Wally's shoulder in excitement. "Hello, Megan! Idea! I have an idea!"   
Damian is wary if the idea came to her from this exchange.   
"Don't tell us," Kon interrupts. "It's your turn to choose the bonding activity this week, right? Is it- would it work for that?"  
M'gann gasps again. "Hello, Megan! You're so right, Kon! It'll be a surprise!"   
Damian crosses his arms. "I dislike surprises."   
"You'll like this one! Promise!"   
"We're here to train, aren't we?" Damian spins on his heels sharply and heads for the mats. They've spent too much time on this.


	3. Show and Tell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> M’gann puts her brilliant idea for team bonding time into action, and Robin suffers for it.

Damian does not like M'gann's idea. It is a horrible idea.

"We always watch the television. I learned everything about humans from the Television. But there is so much I do not know! I am sure there is more to learn for you as well! It is an exchange of information, but it is fun."

"I'm vetoing."

"You can't veto, you're not the leader," Kon growls.

"I do not care. I riot. I stage a coup. I will not do it." Damian states resolutely, glaring back with just as much venom if not more.

M'gann looks hurt. "Humans are proud of their cultures, are they not?", she asks hesitantly.

"Not all of them," he grounds out.

"Okay. Robin, we understand you are not at the same liberties we are when it comes to sharing information. But I think it's an excellent idea. This will bring us closer together and help us understand each other more. It is always good to learn, especially for those of us not from the Earth's surface. This will be beneficial."

"He cannot even say where he is from?", M'gann asks.

"You have no obligation to share, Robin, but I encourage you to. We would never hold it against you, as you know, and I do not believe your culture or country of origin would point to your identity. And we should be absorbing as much information as we can."

Damian knows that. He wouldn't have dropped the accent if he didn't. And unfortunately, he's got no excuse. But in his culture, newer members cut the heads off of members that have failed in their duties, and that is not the least of it. His culture has nothing worthy of being spoken aloud, much less shared.

He grumbles. It would do them good to learn. The fact that they are as oblivious as they are to American culture after so long operating here is telling enough of that. Perhaps he can make something up.

"If you want to learn, I can tell you all about any culture you can name. You just never asked."

"Consider this us asking," Kaldur'ahm intones with finality. "What did you have in mind, M'gann?"

The girl hesitantly lets some of her smothered excitement bleed in. Damian would be more inclined to feel guilty about that if it didn't happen all the time. M'gann was rarely not excited.

"I thought those of us who can bring something to show us or share from their culture could bring it to the bonding session. Food, or clothing, or anything. Anything you want! And we can discuss it and talk about our homes and our favourite parts." 

"Good idea," Kon grunts. Kon doesn't even have a culture, Damian thinks bitterly.

"I will let the others know. Everyone try to bring something. This promises to be very enlightening."

Did M'gann not consider that two of the five of them don't actually have a culture to discuss? If Kon wasn't so thick and lovesick after the girl he could have felt left out. Oh, get over it, Damian, he chided himself. You sound like a bitch.

So everyone's there on Friday night with various 'stuff'. Damian gets a horrible sense of déjà vu that sends him back to a class in which the topic of the day was "show and tell". He stabs that memory.

Damian has moaned over this get together more than he ever has any injury, and probably more than any mission he's had in at least the last six months. He was definitely expected to contribute. Sure, he could do that. He'd bring his sword his mother gave him to kill with and explain the cultural significance of beheadings. He thought of just adopting another culture for the sake of the exercise. He thought of not contributing anything, because he absolutely should not be obligated to.

Then he figured he might as well. Perhaps it would even throw them off the scent. Not that Damian thought they were even close to guessing, but you can never be too careful.

The team should learn. He's sick of being the party pooper. And he supposes he is Arabic.

So he sits down in the circle Kaldur'ahm has called them into on the floor. Damian has stopped protesting that indignity. He's not a child anymore. Ironically, he's convinced himself that he is mature enough to sit on the floor with the other kids.

"I am so excited! Thank you all for sharing.", M'gann bursts. She's bouncing on her heels as she sits on them. Damian sits on his folded knees beside her. Wally throws himself bodily over the couch and lands in a pile on his other side. The rest of them are less dramatic.

"Has everyone brought something?", Kaldur'ahm asks. There's a chorus of yes', and a head nod from Damian. "Excellent. Who would like to go first?"

Damian raises an eyebrow at the brown paper bag sat beside Superboy. That should be fun.

"I'll go! Me!" Wally shouts. Always first. Oddly fitting, if cliché, but Wally is nothing if not a walking cliché.

"So, I'm not interesting. I'm just, from like, here. Central City. Born and raised. And I was worried I wouldn't think of anything, but I did super fast, cause that's on brand, and basically I've lived across the street from this hot dog vendor for my whole life, I mean the guy's never moved, and it's become like a family, uh, cultural... it's a thing. It's not home without the hot dog stand. The hot dogs aren't even that good but they're my favourite and they're all I used to eat and when I was younger I actually didn't know there were more I thought he was the only guy who sold hot dogs in the world so I was shook when I found another one. I thought it was him. I cried. Doesn't matter. Anyway, I brought hot dogs."

And with his piece said, Wally produces a tinfoil covered bowl full of hot dogs. They look disgusting, and they smell worse.

"Those smell... really good," Artemis admits. Wally passes them around. Shit, Damian's gonna have to eat one, isn't he?

"That's a good story," Zatanna nods. "It doesn't matter what it is that's important if it's important to you. It's the little things that make home."

Wally looks relieved by that. Was he worried?

Damian is pretty sure Kaldur'ahm is about as eager to eat one of those hot dogs as he is, but he smooths his face, diplomatic as ever.

"It's the first thing I thought of," Wally says.

Artemis moans around her hot dog. She does not look sorry. "I love your culture."

Damian crosses his fingers, but of course Wally's brought one for everyone. He takes his, the most squished and greasy on account of being the bottom dog of the pile and tries not to grimace. He has to talk himself into this. It's disgusting to touch. Kaldur'ahm meets his eye and takes a discreetly reluctant bite out of the thing. Ugh, it oozes.

"We forgot plates," Damian jumps up delightedly. "I'll get them. No Wally- I'll get them. You should talk about your culture, it's your turn," he says before the guy can burst off and grab them fast. And he doesn't stay a moment longer.

Damian strategically rips his hot dog into pieces small enough to lose, and uneven to discourage correlation. He stuffs them under two layers of rubbish in the bin separately.

Unfortunately, Wally is not stupid. He will know exactly what is up if Damian just leaves it at that. So he is left with one choice.

He makes a point of coming back (pretending to chew) with one plate less than necessary, having bitten the last piece he has left of the monstrosity just enough to make it look bitten, therefore having witnesses confirm he has a half eaten hot dog in his hand, only to turn back under the guise of having forgotten one plate.

Damian does away with the hot dog. It is cruel to even put such a thing in the same category as a dog. Dogs deserve better. At least it isn't made of dog.

Wally is saying something about city life when he returns. Strangely enough, everyone seems to be paying attention. People don't usually afford Wally that- and that's fair.

Artemis is next on the chopping block, and she looks nervous. Shifty. Damian is aware of her background, it makes sense for her to be. Well, if he can get through this, she's fine.

"I'm of, uh, Vietnamese heritage, like Robin said. I like the food, so I learned to cook it. This isn't traditional or anything, but it's one of the first things I ever got right... it's just," she waves her hand around vaguely, clearing up nothing. "Salad. Just stuff."

Now this actually looks, and smells, promising. It isn't quite Vietnamese, but there are elements of it, along with other Asian cultures. This time, Wally races off to the kitchen for bowls and he's back in a nine tenths of a second, having forgotten cutlery.

"Do we have chopsticks?" Damian asks.

"Uh..." Wally blurs out of sight and back into it. "Yes. Apparently."

At the confusion going around, Damian speaks up. "Vietnamese food, along with most Asian cultures', is traditionally eaten with chopsticks. It is Artemis' call, though."

"Uhmm... yeah. Sure."

Damian has to hold an impromptu 'eating with chopsticks' class, and pretend he doesn't see Artemis trying to figure it out too. Wally is a lost cause and is stuck with the spork of shame. Kon gets the hang of it, M'gann and Kaldur'ahm being as attentive as they are follow shortly after. Zatanna was already capable.

Damian was right. It is delicious, and he says as much. Artemis seems to really appreciate it.

"Did everyone bring food?", M'gann asks.

"I didn't," Kon says stiffly. Excellent. Damian doesn't trust his paper bag.

"We should probably get the food out of the way first, so we don't eat in increments," Kaldur'ahm says after he's swallowed his salad. "Ah, I brought a food item, but it isn't for your consumption."

"Well, I didn't bring food, so go ahead," the magician beside him shrugs.

Damian watches carefully as he pulls from behind the counter a- goldfish bag? A plastic bag filled with water? No, there's something in it.

"Yum," he says, eyeing what he is now convinced is a live jellyfish. M'gann's eyes are as wide as saucers, and Kon is paying attention now. Damian has studied Atlantian culture, but does not know of this... thing.

Kaldur'ahm lets out a series of clicks that Damian knows has no human translation. He takes it to be the name of the mystery jellyfish. "It is a delicacy in Atlantis, especially the Mediterranean."

Damian quietly scans the thing after Kaldur'ahm gives him the go ahead, but there is no match.

"Humans have not recorded this creature yet."

Wally drops forward. "Wait really?!"

"Is it that shocking? 95% of the ocean is undiscovered by humans."

"I don't think humans would appreciate a good"- he makes the clicking noises again. "You would probably try to cook it or something. I would not waste it on you."

"Those things are dangerous to humans anyway," Artemis adds, eyeing it warily.

"Well, I'm certainly looking forward to eating it later."

"Where is it served?" Damian asks.

"It is more of a catch and kill your own, but quite a well known snack. Highly sought after. I would liken it to..." he considers, brow furrowing. "Chocolate."

"Kaldur has a sweet tooth," Zatanna teases.

"You could say so."

Zatanna has brought a card deck. Completely average. That is the exciting part. She spends her time- notably longer than everyone else's, because they're having fun- doing card tricks without any of her real magic. The challenge she issues is for them to see through the tricks. Damian is disqualified because he gets all of them right too quickly for anyone else to try. It is still amusing. He enjoys himself.

M'gann has brought a scrap of fabric that she says is commonly worn on Mars, particularly at night. It is much lighter than the day clothes, and she says much prettier in her opinion. It is passed around. Damian listens intently, and asks her a few questions. He has researched Martian culture as well, but hearing it from the horse's mouth is altogether different.

He enjoys himself almost enough to forget about Kon's mysterious brown bag. Instead of putting him out of his apprehension and just letting the guy pull out his item, Wally snatches it up.

"Wait, don't tell us!", he calls. "Can we guess?"

"Yes. Wait, no. Robin can't. Everyone else can."

"Oooh, fun!" M'gann claps her hands.

"Can I shake it?"

"Yes."

Oh, that's why he can't guess. They're maracas. Damian actually lets out a startled chuckle, giving Kon a no-harm-meant gesture. "Just surprised me."

"Wait, you already know what it is?"

"Of course he knows."

"Shh!" Wally snaps, shaking it beside his ear once more, face more concentrated than maracas deserved. M'gann is practically sparkling, no doubt excited by the noise. Kaldur'ahm appears to be thinking deeply. Guesses are thrown around, none of them good, for all of five minutes before Wally gets impatient and rips open the bag. Damian is not sure why he expected to last long kept in suspense.

His face lights up. The horrible idea that Wally and maracas are the worst duo ever comes to mind, but Artemis saves them all from that fate and grabs them out of his hands after he's had his fun.

"Wow, they're so pretty! What are they for?", M'gann sighs.

"Music. They're instruments. Very old percussion instruments from Brazil," Kon rattles off.

"They are used in Caribbean and Latin music mostly these days, but they were originally used for divination," Damian adds as an afterthought. He had gone through a phase where he researched cults and old religions, including tribal beliefs, to better understand his own origins.

"Divination?" Zatanna echoes. Damian pulls himself from his faraway thoughts to respond.

"They were used in healing rituals, and used by shamans. Many tribes around Latin America believed they had spiritual powers."

Wally's looking at him strangely.

"What?"

"Kon is like the Oxford Dictionary, and you're like Wikipedia."

Damian cracks a smile.

"Robin did say he was well versed in many cultures. He is probably a great source of information, tonight especially."

"What'd ya bring, Rob?" Wally demands.

Damian is careful with his words as he formulates them next.

"I have brought an item of clothing. I will ask all of you not to pry at my origins. Ask whatever you'd like otherwise."

Damian pulls the black case he's brought with him to his side and unclips it. He takes the thawb from where it lays across the inside lining and pulls it out.

It is a simple white. Nothing special.

"A dress?" Wally asks.

"It is called many things, depending on area. The easiest to pronounce of those would be a Thobe."

"Heh, like robe," Wally chuckles.

"Sure. It is typically worn by men in and around Arabia and Iraq. Most are white or an off white, or grey or something. White reflects light, so it's the most common colour, as that part of the world is very hot and the sun can be cruel. Those of the highest standing, such as Sheikh, Emir, or Sultan embroider their thobes with gold to signify their status, but most look just like this."

He passes it around the circle.

"If it's worn by men, why didn't you just wear it?", Zatanna asks. Damian doesn't have an answer to that, so she offers to fix that for him.

Zatanna does some magic hoodoo and Damian finds himself kneeling in the same position, holding his Robin suit and wearing the thobe. Wally whines because it was going to be his turn to see it. Damian blinks to subtly make sure his mask is still on- he hasn't broken that habit yet whenever Zatanna casts her spells.

"You wear it well," Kaldur'ahm hums.

M'gann nods. "Yes, it suits you,"

Damian smiles. "Thank you."

They move on to other things. Damian answers all the questions they can think of before they get distracted. And they do get distracted. It ends in a highly competitive pillow fight. He has another bowl of Artemis' salad.

Before Damian leaves that night, Wally stops him.

"Hey hey, that was pretty cool wasn't it? I know you were iffy about it but it went pretty well. I didn't know any of that."

Damian considers. It was quite successful- or at least, far less disastrous than he had feared (especially considering the maracas). It could only do them good. He nods.

"Told ya it wouldn't be so bad. But, you know you can... like, it was cool of you to bring something. And it's cool to tell us about it. Even if you don't wanna tell the others... just, it's okay if you wanna tell me, yeah?"

Damian's first instinct is to smile, because it is not okay. It is not okay to be born a murderer, to a league of murderers. It is not okay that the closest thing to home is something he never hopes any of them ever have to see. It is not okay that Damian is a soldier in a team of children that deserve better than war. Better than him, certainly. But he appreciates the thought.

"Yeah. Thank you, Wally."

Before he leaves, he turns back. "I am- I'm trying to abbreviate more."

Wally frowns as he smiles. "Dude, you don't gotta."

"No, you're right. It's old fashioned."

"Well you're not very old, but you're pretty fashioned."

"Fashionable."

"Nah."

Damian takes the olive branch and shakes his head as he leaves.


	4. Familiar Territory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team gets back from a rough mission. Robin remembers that he’s not like his friends.

Robin is in Superboy's room before he is. He figures it's the only way to get the guy to let him in. Someone's got to be here. No one else is going to- and no one else should. Damian isn't sure if it's their first case where they actually encountered a properly visceral body, but they all seem to need... a bit.

Kon blinks dumbly at him when he opens the door. "...Robin."

"Kon."

Damian watches Kon scrutinize him. Kon never hides it, Damian never begrudges him. He's not nosy. Now, he's probably wondering if Robin is as unaffected as he seems, and if so, how.

He must find something, because his shoulders slump and he shuffles over to his bed and drops down onto it. His hands run over his mouth, his face, then his eyes.

"I just... don't understand. How could... anyone..." he swallows. Shakes his head vaguely. "How could they do that?"

Damian can think of a thousand reasons, but he simplifies. "Power. Apathy. Callousness. Because it feels good."

Kon slowly, slowly looks at him.

"They are high on self made agency. It is their call, life or death. They are in more control than they've ever been, and afterward, it will not affect their life in any way. Why do people break things? Same reason."

Kon doesn't say anything. Damian migrates to sit on the bed beside him. Damian does not look at his shaking hands, nor his own still ones.

"The first case is always hard."

They sit, for a long while, but Damian doesn't think he's done. Kon breaks the silence with a dry, ugly voice.

"When was your... first...?"

Now it's Damian who swallows. He wasn't old enough to remember the first time he killed.

"A long time ago," he settles on.

He leaves Kon as much for his own sake as Kon's.


	5. Boo-boos and band-aids

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin doesn’t quite process pain like the others do, and now it’s coming to bite him in the ass.

Zatanna limps in on her twisted ankle, leaning on Robin. Aside from a superficial cut on Wally's face and a light scrape to M'gann's knees, it's the only injury. They made up for that with the appalling outcome of the mission itself.

M'gann's horrified gasp is unexpected, but comes almost as soon as they're back.

"Robin, you're bleeding!"

Damian looks down. There's a slice just under his chest armour, between the plates. It would need stitches. He looks up.

The whole team is staring. M'gann looks like she's been stabbed for god's sake. Zatanna's looks like she's seen a ghost.

"You didn't know...?" she whispers in horror.

Oh.

Oh.

Damian isn't sure if he was trained to ignore pain. Pain is useful, it lets you know your weaknesses. But in active combat it only gets in the way. It isn't that he didn't notice, he just filed it away. Apparently he filed it away a little too well.

"I'll handle it," he says firmly, turning on his heels and marching down the hall, where there aren't five pairs of wide eyes staring him down.

He intends to go straight to his room and deal with it with his own kit, but he's shoved into the med bay as soon as he walks by it.

"Where do you think you're going?!" Wally squawks, hand on the doorframe.

"I have a kit in my room."

"What are you gonna do, patch yourself up? Jesus, dude, you're wounded! Sit down!"

Damian grits his teeth, hearing the rest of the team storm the med bay.

"It's not as bad as it looks, I said I could take care of it. Zatanna needs the bed, I don't."

"Like hell," the girl calls from behind Wally. M'gann pushes her way past Wally first, and they all file in. Damian pointedly avoids looking at their faces.

"Come on, Robin, don't be stubborn, not when you're hurt. I will patch you up."

This is an intensely moronic way to give in, but he can't very well stand there bleeding for too much longer. It's illogical, by all accounts except his own, and it is in fact exactly as bad as it looks.

They do not have time for this. If this happens again, he cannot afford to be caught out and hung up the way he is now. 

The cape goes, he folds it carefully as ever and hangs it over the visiting chair. Then the gloves, then the armour. No one makes a move to go anywhere, which is just as well- better they all get it over with now. M'gann tries, but backs off when her attempts to help him partially undress are not accepted.

Zatanna sinks into the chair. Wally's already got the stitching supplies. Damian's glad for it when he finally takes off his final shirt layer and there are mingled gasps and grunts of shock, and they all go stock still.

M'gann has frozen with the cleaned needle in her hand. Damian finally has the courage to look up at them from under hooded eyes, and it doesn't help. He cleans the cut himself. Kaldur'ahm is the first to speak.

"Robin..."

Damian does not respond. He has nothing to say. He knows how bad he looks to civilians. While these people are his team, they are still children. Children do not take well to scars like Damian's.

M'gann's hands are shaking, so he takes the needle himself.

"You haven't... put anesthesia..." she mumbles weakly.

"I do not like drugs."

Damian threads the needle and starts. In, out. He doesn't make a sound. No point pretending at this point, and honestly, he can't be bothered. He's just tired.

He finishes his stitching and swipes over it until the blood is minimal, then mechanically rips open the bandage, peels it, applies it.

He picks up his cape and suit from beside Zatanna and steps out. He expects it, but it hurts when they all move away from him.

Damian doesn't bother with a shirt. He races up the stairs, new stitches be damned, and runs off to the garden, calling Titus as he goes.

He knows it was necessary. But it doesn't mean he can't sulk about it. Dick taught him that. He doesn't take it to the lengths his brother does, but he's learned a little sulking is allowed. And there's no better place for it than the garden.

Alfred comes to check on him in his room after dinner. Whether he knows Damian wants him to stay or not is irrelevant, although he's found it hard not to consider Alfred omniscient. Either way, the butler will make him ask for it. They have been working on that.

"Alfred."

"Yes, Master Damian?"

"Stay for a moment."

Alfred acquiesces, closing the door softly behind him. He comes to sit next to Damian. He almost certainly knew.

"I took a hit today," he starts. "Nothing big. But they didn't let me treat it myself, and I had to take my shirt off."

"I see."

Damian shakes his head, staring into the dark corner of his room. "I don't know if they were ready."

"Were you?", Alfred asks.

"It's not about the scars. I don't want them to know... they're only children, and I'm..."

Alfred folds him into a hug. Damian just sort of falls into him. He's found he loves Alfred's hugs.

"And you are their friend," Alfred finishes. Damian nods into his chest.

"Don't forget, Master Damian; they are also your friends. You would do well to... I believe Master Dick would use the word 'estimate', them.

Damian doesn't feel like going back the next day, but he does. He can ignore them all day if he has to, but he can't have his stilted return coincide with an attack or mission where they'd need to work as a team.

Kaldur'ahm and M'gann are on the couch, so they're the first he sees. M'gann gets up and approaches him as soon as he's out, eyes wide and searching.

"Robin, how is your wound? Are you well?" she flinches at her word choice.

"Yes. How is Zatanna?"

"She is somewhat withdrawn, but her ankle isn't bad."

"At least it wasn't Wally. He'd be insufferable."

She does crack a smile at that, however brief.

Zatanna has her brow furrowed at her card deck when Damian arrives.

"Robin," she props herself up. "Do you need the bed?"

Damian shakes his head. "I'm here for you."

She settles a little.

"... You were trained not to feel pain, weren't you?"

Surprising both of them, he answers.

"It's not as simple as that."

Damian uncrosses his arms and pushes off from the doorframe. "Do you want anything from the kitchen?"

Zatanna shakes her head. He leaves.

The others don't mention anything, and he's glad to be over it. He does not humour the looks Kon gives him.


	6. Case 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talia’s in town, and she’s taken Damian’s katana. Batman’s off world. What does she want? Robin’s going to have to go after her himself to find out, but the team has no intentions of letting him go alone.

Batman is off-world when Damian gets the call.

"Robin."

"Batman. Is all well with your mission?"

"Yes. I'm calling about another matter. Is this line secure?"

"Negative. I'm with the team."

"...Case 13 is empty. The contents have been stolen."

Damian drops his phone. He feels Kon and whoever else is in the room look at him as he snatches it back up.

"It's empty?"

"Yes."

There is only one person alive who would take that. Damian could never bring himself to discard it. He doesn't use it anymore, but he still practices with it. Despite everything, it was the first thing he was ever given that was entirely his. The first thing his mother gave him. The only reason she would take his katana is if she wanted his attention.

The thought of his mother here, now, and whatever she wants... oh, god.

"Do not go after it alone, Robin."

"You won't be back until Tuesday."

"...No. I can't get out any sooner."

"She is not patient."

"Do not. Go. Alone. I am not sure what she wants. I'm looking into it, but she hasn't... it's hard to determine."

Talia hasn't worked with the league in long enough that following that lead will tell them nothing.

Damian draws in a sharp breath. "Thank you for telling me."

"Robin."

"Yes?"

"Stay safe."

Damian swallows as he hangs up. His face is ashen. He doesn't look away from the carpet until he hears M'gann speak.

"What is wrong, Robin?"

Everyone is looking at him. Even Zatanna has hobbled out. Damian didn't even notice.

"Nothing. Nothing for the team," he stammers.

Oh god, he never wants to see his mother again. Not just because he hates her, because he loves her. Because she's his mother, and she's a heartless bitch with awful intentions and too much power over him. Because she raised him and he's exactly what she made him, and he's just like her, and he didn't hate being with her, no matter how much she used him and all the people he killed, he liked it-

"What's missing?", Kon asks bluntly.

"...Something very, very important to me."

She's going to undo everything. Everything he's worked so hard on changing and forgetting and burying, all the progress he's made. No more sulking or smiling or laughing or hugs from Alfred. She's going to take it all away just by being here, and he's worked so fucking hard— how could he think he could really have this—

"We'll help you get it back," Zatanna says easily.

Damian's head whips to her. We'll just get it back. Him and these children who've barely the stomach for a cut. Everything was so fucking simple as that.

"You have no idea what you're talking about," he snarls, and books it for the Zeta tube. He's gone before anyone says anything.

Damian has never broken down the way he does then. It just keeps mounting. He's never been this scared. He's never going to see the garden again. He's never going to see Titus, or Wally, or Zatanna or M'gann or Kaldur'ahm or Kon or Zatanna or Bruce or Dick or Tim or Jason or Alfred or Barbara or Cassandra or Stephanie or Duke or Clark ever again. He'll never see the grounds, never be able to hide, never be alone, never be allowed to be hungry or thirsty or afraid or weak or hurt ever again. He will never smile again. He will never have Alfred's biscuits again. He will never get another hug again. He will never be happy again.

He truly believes that for the next hour and a half, which he spends huddled on the floor in the corner making himself as small as humanly possible. He shakes and stutters and screams and cries and hits the air. He mumbles in Arabic, cursed Arabic, because it is all he can manage, which is just another way he can't escape.

When Alfred finds him towards the end, he's on his knees and holding him in seconds. He wishes it was the first time. It is for Damian, but Alfred has found himself here far too often.

Damian cries himself hoarse into Alfred's chest. It takes him another half an hour after the episode to steady his breathing, and then another half an hour of just sitting. Alfred does not move.

She will not get him, Damian remembers. He will die first. If she takes him back, he will kill himself.

This finally calms his heart. There is nothing to fear. No. He has the power. She will not have him. Damian fears everything she brings with her, though. But he cannot stand to think of it now. His body hurts too much.

Alfred settles him into the closest bed in the med bay with great care. He tucks the boy in, speaking in soft murmurs. He keeps the lights dim and never goes farther than a few feet away from his charge. He settles into the chair beside the bed when Damian finally drifts into merciful unconsciousness.

Talia Al Ghul is very lucky she will never meet the Wayne family butler.

Damian wakes to a raw throat and a plate of biscuits.

"Robin, B01."

Robin looks awful. He doesn't seem angry, which is an improvement, but there is a paleness to him and a dead set to his face, as if he's forgotten he's ever felt joy.

"Robin. Did you retrieve your object?", Kaldur'ahm asks cautiously. He receives a head shake.

Kaldur'ahm looks around at his teammates. Wally looks uncharacteristically worried, Zatanna determined. "I understand you're opposed to us helping you find it, but it's clearly bothering you. Surely we can help."

Robin looks up at him chillingly. "You cannot, Kaldur'ahm. It is beyond our abilities."

It is not right to hear such a blunt statement from Robin. Robin, who is the most capable of all of them, who is always certain they can do anything. He has never said anything of the sort.

"How do you know?!" Artemis blurts. "We're pretty good! What, you're just gonna let your oh-so-important mysterious treasure go? It's not like you can go alone."

Talia will not wait for him to seek her out if he delays. She will find him. In fact, the team may be at risk already. And facing her alone is out of the question. What if she comes after him at the manor? What if she finds Alfred?

"We are all willing, Robin. Tell us what to do," Kon says resolutely, crossing his arms.

Damian looks around at them. Every member of the team is there, and no one argues. He looks each of them in the eyes.

"You have been warned," he says darkly.

The team is around the planning table in a minute, looking much more serious than usual. Damian pulls up a hologram following the tracker in his katana.

"This is the item. It's in the Times Hotel. It's in a case small enough to carry by hand, not particularly heavy."

"How do you know they haven't swapped the cases?" Wally asks with his hand up.

She wouldn't. There is no need. It's simply bait. "They haven't."

"You sound like Batman," Wally grumbles.

"You gonna tell us what's in it?" Artemis asks challengingly.

"No." He looks back at her. She bites down whatever she wants to say. Wise. "This is almost certainly a trap."

"Can you tell us who we are facing?", Kaldur'ahm asks. "It would help us if we knew our enemy."

It would not. Nothing could prepare this team to face the League of Assassins.

"No."

Kon frowns. "On the phone, you said she. Who's 'she'?"

"In this case, Superboy, it will not help you to know."

The team does not like that. Damian presses on. "We will converge on the hotel. Zatanna-"

"I'm going. I can watch from close by."

Robin nods. "You're scout, then. We'll go at dark. Kaldur'ahm, I request to lead this mission."

The Atlantian watches him and nods.

"I need you all to listen to me out there. I mean it. Every. Word. It is life or death."

M'gann looks terrified, but Damian won't take it back. He needs them to know. Wally is still. Artemis straightens. All of them look at him unwaveringly.

"I will not force anyone to come. Back out, no one will hold it against you." That never came with mission briefings. Technically, missions were always life or death, but it was insinuated that it was part of the job. This is beyond the job. This is different entirely. This is simply death. But no one moves. Zatanna's eyes gleam.

"I know how these people work, which means they'll switch up their technique. Expect an ambush. That's all."


	7. Disappointing Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin’s mother stabs her way back into his life, and this time, he’s got his friends with him. But is that a good thing?  
> Are they going to make it out of this?

It doesn't stay quiet. By the time they are all geared up and Zeta beamed close by, there are hushed discussions among the team. Robin, in contrast, clams up.

Zatanna sets up post on a rooftop adjacent to the building, with binoculars to watch. The tracker is on the sixteenth floor of a particularly ritzy hotel. Damian remembers it well. It is where he first met his father.

Damian stations Miss Martian outside of the window of the room the tracker's in. This is an obvious spot for an ambush, he feels uneasy only having one entry point. He feels uneasy anyway.

"I've got nothing, Rob," Zatanna mutters over the earpiece.

"Miss Martian?"

"I can't feel anything."

He expected that, but he doesn't like it.

Well, she's after him. He's going in first. That seems the only course of action.

The locks are a piece of cake. Nothing happens when he opens the door. The room is exactly as he recalls it, and his case is sitting innocently on the table on the right side of the room where he can see it from the doorway. On purpose.

Damian moves for it. Two steps, and his hands close around the handle.

Many things happen at once. The halls on both sides of them silently fill with agents, pushing his teammates and Damian through the doorway and into the room. M'gann flies into the room and is promptly placed at knife point- an exact knife point, the one right on her artery, where the slightest pricking would kill. The rest of them are dealt with the same way, and Damian is left unchallenged, surrounded in a circle by league members with face wraps and his team members at the end of their blades. They have to crouch to match their height.

Damian nearly doesn't make it. Just as he knows Superboy and Kid Flash are about to move, he flings an arm out.

"NOBODY MOVE!" he yells. "You move, they die!"

The league members do not react. Damian wonders how many of them he knows. Superboy is angry, but Damian sees his eyes and is hit with something he's felt once before telling the boy about death. Wally stills, eyes locked onto his, trying to understand through his fear. Damian can smell it. M'gann's rigid as a board to stop herself from shaking- good. Zatanna is whiter than he's ever seen her, but she looks determined as ever. Kaldur'ahm has stopped thinking. He is always thinking, but Damian can see the gears have stuttered to a stop, at least momentarily.

The door is left open, encouraging Damian to face it. He does so, making sure he can keep all of them in his view as he does.

She comes sweeping in. She turns into the doorway from the right, long legs taking unbothered measured strides, eyes on her son. She wears a flowing white dress that falls in sheer material around her form, with jewels that fall low on her hips and cutouts. It brings out the shade of her skin. Dull gold braces encircle her forearms.

"You are not in your fighting gear," is the first thing Damian hears himself say.

"I do not expect to do any fighting", she responds easily.

Her voice makes it harder to breathe. Her eyes are hard as ever, and they look right into him just as they always did. That was the most striking part about his mother: she always looked straight into his eyes, never elsewhere. Even when they fought.

Damian feels like nothing. She speaks to him in Arabic, and the whole world melts except for her. But he answers in the same tongue.

"I came to collect you."

"You will not have me. If you bring me back, you bring back a corpse."

Talia regards her son unfazed. "What if I kill your friends?"

"I will go with you, and I will be dead within the week."

Vaguely, Damian hears a gasp from where Superboy is being held. They stare into each other for what feels like minutes. Her eyes are as dark as ever, her hair falling in chocolate rivulets around her face. She does not blink. He does not stand down. She is searching him, coming to a conclusion. It is hard to look at her. It makes Damian feel sick and hurt and desperate and hopeful. It makes his stomach turn. He misses her.

He never hurt with her. He was never happy, but he was never sad. Nothing was painful, pain was not permitted. She was always there. He never felt wrong. There was no repercussion when he slid his sword through a target's throat. He would spar with his mother to earn his Dolma, and he would never worry. She was always there to teach him something new, to bring him tea every single night until he enjoyed it. To be honest with him. To expect the best of him. To improve him. It is so much easier to remember now, as she stands before him, hips cocked as they always are, one foot before the other.

"That is disappointing," she sighs. Damian is disappointing. A failure.

"I have chosen," he bites back sharply.

"I made you for more. Do not throw that away. Come back with me. Be the heir I intended you to be. Damian," her voice softens on his name. It hits him like a train.

Say it again, mother. Please. Say my name again.

"Come home."

Home.

He could, logistically. She'd never leave him again.

"Robin," Superboy snaps. It drags Damian's gaze from his mother's, and slowly he turns his head, blank eyes landing first on M'gann. She is petrified. Her red hair falls over her captor's arm. Damian wonders if she ever got to try human lipstick like she wanted to. Wally makes a choking noise, and Damian thinks of his hot dogs. Alfred's biscuits come to mind, and when he looks at his mother again he is thinking of Alfred's hugs.

"You were good to me, Mother," he states, hands shaking, unable to vilify her like she deserves. "But not for my sake. I owe you nothing, and I am going nowhere."

If possible, she looks even more disappointed. Her lips pull down at the sides the way they do whenever he gets a move wrong. Got. Whenever he got a move wrong.

"You will not change your mind."

"No."

Her eyes freeze over. "Then you have failed me for the last time. I will have to begin again- but I will find someone who deserves the honour I meant for you."

It should not hurt half as much as it does to hear that. Damian knows it is wrong. She is wrong. But his heart cracks for his mother. For himself. He wants to cry, but he's in no danger of doing so- not in her presence. Never in her presence. She has run him through more times than he can count, he is not about to break for this once more.

She sweeps out the way she came, dress flowing behind her. The agents withdraw, and Damian throws a hand out to stop his team from engaging them. They are alone in the room all too quickly, which is not something Damian should be thinking about the enemy's retreat.

It is so, so difficult to breathe. As soon as her silhouette is gone from his sight, though, his chest clears. He gulps in air having thought he never would again. It's completely illogical, and not the time for such nonsense.

'Any injuries?' he asks flatly through the mind link. He spins on his heels to see all of his team and take visual cues, unfreezing himself and letting the solid metal walls shudder down between his mental state and what just happened. He assesses the situation. None of them had any harm done to them at all, unsurprisingly. The league only ever does exactly as much damage as they mean to. Kon has a deep frown on his face, set directly on Damian. He is alone in this- the rest of them seem to be more frazzled or confused than anything. It is not often they are so clearly outclassed, and the threat has left as fast as it had made itself known. Wally coughs. Artemis' legs are shaking.

'No,' comes Kaldur'ahm's reply. He is a fine leader. Damian is immensely thankful for it now.

They leave through the window quickly. None of them want to linger in this room full of fear. Damian isn't sure if he wants to leave or stay, but whichever it is he wants it deseprately. Robin only has to tell them once that they will not talk about it until they're back in that cut off tone. They don't speak amongst themselves as they usually do, and after Superboy's similar spirit is picked up on, they don't speak at all. Damian tries not to think. It comes too easily.


	8. Who are you?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian’s finally got his back against the wall. He’s got some things to explain.

M'gann is the first to break the hush once they're back at the mountain.

"What- wh- what happened?", she asks timidly. She looks around at the others, but lands her gaze on Damian.

"I convinced her to leave without what she came for," Damian answers brusquely. He does not remove his gloves as he does after most missions. He doesn't sit as the others do around the kitchen island, but hovers near it, still. It is... strange. Something in its strangeness, or perhaps the strangeness of the rest of the night, prompts the team to float over themselves as they would around the mission briefing table, Robin holding court at the head.

"Whatever's in the case? Your important object?", Kaldur'ahm asks.

"No. That was her way of getting my attention."

"Wait wait," Wally interrupts, shaking his head slower than usual with his hands up. "Can we backup? Why the hell did they leave? They just retreated like they didn't have us all at knifepoint. I don't speak Robin, so it was just gibberish to me, but what could you have possibly said to elicit that reaction?"

"I made her an ultimatum," Damian replies steadily.

Wally throws his hands up exasperatedly. "She had us at knife! Point! What did you have on her?!"

"His life," Kon speaks up darkly. His arms are crossed over his broad chest, and he stands behind them all, directly across from Damian. He is staring intensely at Damian in what might be a glare or might not from under his brow. "He threatened to kill himself if she took him."

M'gann gasps loudly, reeling back from the counter, a hand shooting to her mouth as she whips around to look at Robin. Wally's eyes widen. Kaldur'ahm's head shoots up. Artemis stands abruptly, chair loudly screeching against the floor. Zatanna is just gaping. Robin feels far more apathetic than he should, than he would. He suspects seeing his mother has brought back old habits.

"It was not a threat. You understand Arabic?"

Kon nods grimly. "I understood everything," he says with gravity.

"She wanted you?", Wally asks weakly.

"She wanted me to come back to Nanda Parbat with her. It is not the first time, but it might be the last. I have warned her what would happen, but... she's finally accepted it, I think. I have disappointed her for the last time," Damian says, echoing her own words.

"What, you've got a history with that snake?", Artemis spits.

Robin's white lenses meet her eyes. "She raised me. You just met my mother."

M'gann's other hand snaps to her mouth, and her eyes fill with tears. Zatanna makes a wet choking sound, and Damian catches Wally's desperate whispered 'no'. Kaldur'ahm and Artemis simply go still, eyes wide. Superboy's head dips slightly. Damian doesn't know what to say, so he pulls his case closer to him, fiddling with the latches, not meeting his teammate's eyes. He slowly opens it toward himself. He looks into his blade's reflection for a moment. His eyes run over the handle, every stitch memorised. It is like having an arm back. He hates it.

He takes his katana gingerly out of its velvet bed, closing the case and sliding it aside.

"This is the only thing she ever gave me. It was the only thing I had ever owned before she took me to my father in America. I... I still practice with it, but... it has not seen battle since I..." Damian doesn't know how to finish that sentence. Since he stopped being a killer? You can't. He is still a killer. This blade will never be clean of blood, and nor will he.

"She spoke to you as if you were valuable property," Kon rumbles. "She wanted you for something. To be her heir."

Damian feels the creeping edges of dread, of fear, curl into his stomach and toes. The faint shadows of the all encompassing panic he should be feeling. It will not be good if it all suddenly hits him in the middle of this conversation, but there's not much he can do about it. Alfred would know what to say. If or when this team leaves him, he will still have him and Father, and Grayson. Even the others. He would not have Wally, though. Or Zatanna. He would not have any of them.

Damian takes a deep breath. "That was her purpose for me. I am the grandson of the Head of the League of Assassins. His daughter, Talia Al Ghul, is my mother. She brought me here to Batman when I was ten. The room we were ambushed in is where I first met my father. She meant for him to train me, as she did for my first ten years. My allegiances, and my values, changed. I do not kill," the unspoken anymore tastes as bitter as Drake's coffee. "I became Robin and refused to return to the League with her. And I will die before I go back. She will not have me," he says, just to remind himself. "She will not have me."

M'gann is around the counter and hugging him fiercely before he can stop her. Damian tenses and pulls her back from him. She looks at him through a waterfall of steadily flowing tears, confused. They don't understand.

"You should know what that means. You deserve to know. Artemis, you remember what you know of the League. You remember their customs. I was a part of that until three years ago. I was raised in it." He looks at her pointedly. Artemis' hand goes to her mouth, perhaps in shock, perhaps because she might be sick.

Her voice is thick and globby, muffled by her hand, and it shakes. "They- the newer members cut the heads off the members that have failed a mission. They use ch-children- Oh, god—" Her eyes squeeze shut for a moment. She stumbles out of her chair and off down a hallway to throw up.

Damian takes a sharp step back, head down. There is no god, but killers like Damian exist. It's not fair at all. It's disgusting.

Robin snatches up his katana and is gone through the room and down a Zeta tube before the walls crash in on him.


	9. An Evil Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pieces of himself Damian’s been carefully glueing together are shattered again since his mother took a hammer to him and his team found out he was a lie.  
> At least Alfred’s always around.

The punching bag in the Batcave is the first to suffer as he screams and shoots his sword into it the second he's out of the tube. And even that, that action that came so naturally to him, is violence with intent of murder, because he was taught to throw that sword into people. It might as well have stabbed him, it would be accomplishing more good and he would never throw it again. He would never kill anyone ever again. It might even hurt less. Why is he alive again? He doesn't deserve to be, he SHOULDN'T be- he's failed his mother and here he is throwing swords just because he's angry, he's effectively failed his father too. He failed his father before he even met him. He's killed so many people- he's killed children. He's done worse. He's hidden it from his team for so long, selfish, taking their respect like a common thief in the night under false pretences when he deserves nothing. He takes from Alfred and Father and Grayson, he just takes and takes as he was born to do, and no one is better for it. He has failed everyone. He has failed at everything. He is worth nothing.

The next thing Damian is aware of is Alfred, who he can feel against him more than see through his blurry vision. Just another failure, he can't even maintain control of himself anymore. His mother speaks to him in an arctic tone reserved for weakness and cockroaches. You have failed me for the last time. Wally whispers a horrified 'no' and M'gann gasps. You have failed everyone. You are a failure.

Damian is stuck in some horrible limbo that he can't feel time in, so it never ever ends until it does. He can't do it justice when he wakes up. He doesn't want to.

Damian can feel roughness under him, but clearly they are sheets. Not soft enough for hospital sheets. Not his own either. The med bay in the batcave, then. They are not wet, so he is not bleeding. What hurts most is his throat, which becomes even more apparent after he opens his eyes and there is only a soft yellow light to greet him. They usually turn that on when someone injured needs rest. It has never happened to Damian before. He knows where the Alfred button is though, having seen Grayson press it to summon the butler, so he goes ahead and does it himself.

Damian must take stock of his situation. His mother... his mother came for him. His team had been threatened, and then they'd talked. They had discovered him.

He tries to swallow, and it feels like swallowing his sword. Why is that? His throat feels awful. Everything else is secondary, but he does have other minor hurts. He wouldn't say injuries- but plenty of hurts.

When Alfred arrives, in all his softly lit angelic glory, he brings a glass of water. Damian thinks he would put any angel to shame. He cannot imagine anyone being as good as this man. His forehead smooths out on seeing his charge in bed, and he looks a little younger in the glow of the therapy light. It might be how relieved he is looking at Damian.

"Master Damian. It is good to have you awake."

"Al-fie," he croaks painfully, prompting a slight brow furrow from the elderly man. Alfred takes the remote by the bed and adjusts the position, helping Damian sit up as it softly whirs into place. He gives him the water carefully once Damian's in a position to drink it. It helps. Alfred takes up a seat right by his bedside, close.

"What happened?", he asks calmly. Damian is grateful to hear him ask in English.

"I... The team insisted on helping me retrieve my katana." Alfred doesn't react. He probably saw that he'd brought it back and guessed. "She was there. She wanted me back. I told her she would not have me. She understands this time. She will not be back."

"That is good, Master Damian. It is about time."

Reluctantly, Damian nods. "The team was ambushed with me. They had questions."

"You told them."

Damian closes his eyes.

Is it even about them? His "friends"? He shouldn't be allowed such things in the first place, he'd stolen their trust under false pretences. Whether they hate him or not, he IS deserving. Whether they looked at him like M'gann did, like Artemis did, whether they choked like Zatanna did or not, he is still something dangerous bred to kill. And he has.

It doesn't matter if he told them. It doesn't matter if they know. Damian knows. He should have from the start. Suddenly bile rises up in his throat and tears invade his eyes as he thinks of how- how comfortable he's become in this fantasy world of his. He still expects to go back to the mountain and play mariokart. He's been acting like he belongs there for the better part of a year. He convinced himself he does.

Maybe that's why Mother came back. By her own design or not, she's reminded him just as he started to forget. She is his blood. He is her.

"Master Damian, do you think Artemis is the sum of her parents?"

Damian pulls his head up, feeling like dead weight. Alfred looks through him as though he were glass. Right in the eyes like his mother, but the difference between their gazes is so astronomical the comparison can hardly be drawn. For every word Damian could assign to his mother's eyes, there are none to describe Alfred's.

Artemis is not the sun of her parents, no. But there is a world of difference between him and Artemis. Alfred knows this as well.

"Do you think Artemis is the sum of her parents, or her upbringing?", he rephrases.

"Having a personality does not make one redeemable."

"That's not what I asked."

Damian swallows, unable to look away from the butler's face. He's all too aware of Artemis' parents and her upbringing. While she's not a reflection of her family, some of her is a result of that, no doubt- she's just used it to her advantage. Flipped it how she wants to use it. Built up her own values. That's all fine and well, but does that still count for anything when you- when you're Damian? The circumstances are wildly different. Artemis had it bad, and her parents were bad, but the league transcends bad. Damian was one of them. He wasn't a poor defenceless kid CPS overlooked- he was ripping spines out of bodies happily five years ago. He was old enough to have his own values. He didn't.

He can't use Artemis as an excuse. There's no excuse for the things he's done.

"I just know I heartily disagree with what you're thinking right now," Alfred chides. His thumb runs soothingly over Damian's hand, pulling the venom out of the bite of his expression. "How about you let them decide for themselves?"

Damian snorts weakly. Yes, leave it in the hands of children. Of course he doesn't trust them to understand the degree of his sins- it would be an astounding burden. They shouldn't have to.

"It is not about being right, Damian. No one is right in this world. There are no good guys and bad guys. We simply do the best we can."

"Evil exists, Alfred. I was it."

The old butler's eyes glimmer and focus on a point on the far wall. He's quiet for a moment. Thoughtful.

"Do you think I'm evil?", he asks.

"Of course not."

Alfred brings his eyes right back to lock with Damian's. "If anyone threatened my family in this house, I would not hesitate to kill them."

His voice is deadset, his gaze unwavering. He is simply stating a fact, and he wants Damian to know it.

"No matter who you are, you are allowed to have friends. If you don't trust yourself, trust them. Not because they're right, but because they've earned that honour."

Alfred unfolds from his seat beside the bed, dusting off invisible dirt, ironing his seamless lapels.

"Now, I'm certain you're hungry. I'll go prepare you an appropriate meal."

Damian watched him go, detached and all too focussed. Watches him pause just as he's halfway out the door. Turn back.

"You know, Master Damian, I'd hope that I count in that respect, too."

Damian can no longer hear his footsteps by the time it clicks that Alfred meant that he is his friend, too.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at @itreallyisthequietones on Instagram. I usually illustrate my fics and similar things. Feel free to come and have a chat, tell me what you think!


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